THE RECONCILEMENT.
BE gone, ye fighs! be gone, ye tears!
Begone, ye jealoufies and fears !
Celinda fwears the never lov'd,
Celinda fwears none ever mov'd
Her heart, but I; if this be true,
Shall I keep company with you?
What though a fenfelefs rival swore
She faid as much to him before?
What though I faw him in her bed?
I'll truft not what I faw, but what she said,
Curfe on the prudent and the wise,
Who ne'er believe fuch pleafing lies:
the only does deceive;
I grant 'tis folly to believe;
But by this folly I vaft pleafures gain,
While you with all your wifdom live in pain.
DIALOG
O GUE
BETWEEN A LOVER AND HIS FRIEND.
VALUE thyfelf, fond youth, no more
On favours Mulus had before;
He had her first, her virgin flame,
You like a bold intruder came
To the cold relicks of a feaff,
When he at first had feiz'd the best.
When he, dull fot, had feiz'd the worse,
I came in at the fecond course;
'Tis chance that first makes people love,
Judgment their riper fancies move.
Mulus, you fay, first charm'd her eyes;
First, fhe lov'd babies and dirt-pies;
But she grew wiser, and in time
Found out the folly of thofe toys and him.
If wisdom change in love begets,
Women, no doubt, are wondrous wits.
But wisdom that now makes her change to you,
In time will make her change to others too.
I grant you, no man can foresee his doom But fhall I grieve because an ill may come? Yet I 'll allow her change, when she can see A man deferves her more than me,
As much as I deferve her more than he.
Did they with our own eyes fee our desert, No woman e'er could from her lover part.
But, oh! they fee not with their own,
All things to them are through false optics fhewn.
Love at the firft does all your charms increase,
When the tube's turn'd, hate represents them lefs.
Whate'er may come, I will not grieve
For dangers that I can't believe.
She'll ne'er ceafe loving me; or if she do,
'Tis ten to one I ceafe to love her too.
O, faid old Lyce, fenfelefs lover, go,
And with foft verfes court the fair; but know,
With all thy verfes, thou canst get no more
Than fools without one verfe have had before.
Enrag'd at this, upon the bawd I flew,
And that which most enrag'd me was, 'twas true.
THE FAIR MOURNER,
what fad pomp the mournful charmer lies!
Does the lament the victim of her eyes?
Or would fhe hearts with foft compaffion move,
To make them take the deeper stamp of love?
What youth fo wife, fo wary to escape,
When Rigour comes, dreft up in Pity's fhape?
Let not in vain those precious tears be shed,
Pity the dying fair-one, not the dead;
While you unjustly of the fates complain,
I grieve as much for you, as much in vain.
Each to relentless judges make their moan;
Blame not Death's cruelty, but cease your own.
While raging paffion both our fouls does wound,
A fovereign balm might fure for both be found;
Would you but wipe your fruitless tears away,
And with a juft compaffion mine furvey.
TO HIS FALSE MISTRESS.
THOU faidft that I alone thy heart could move,
And that for me thou wouldst abandon Jove.
I lov'd thee then, not with a love defil'd,
But as a father loves his only child.
I know thee now, and though I fiercelier burn,
Thou art become the object of my fcorn:
See what thy falfehood gets; I must confefs
I love thee more, but I efteem thee less.
OW much are they deceiv'd who vainly strive
By jealous fears to keep our flames alive!
Love 's like a torch, which, if secur'd from blasts,
Will faintlier burn, but then it longer lasts:
Expos'd to storms of jealousy and doubt,
The blaze grows greater, but 'tis fooner out.
IN IMITATION OF CATULLUS.
'S there a pious pleasure that proceeds
From contemplation of our virtuous deeds?
That all mean fordid actions we despise,
And fcorn to gain a throne by cheats and lies?
Thyrfis, thou hast sure blessings laid in store,
From thy juft dealing in this curft amour :
What honour can in words or deeds be shown,
Which to the fair thou haft not faid and done?
On her falfe heart they all are thrown away;
She only fwears, more eas❜ly to betray.
Ye Powers! that know the many vows the broke,
Free my just foul from this unequal yoke!
My love boils up, and, like a raging flood,
Runs through my veins, and taints my vital blood.
I do not vainly beg she may grow chaste,
Or with an equal paffion burn at last;
The one the cannot practise, though she would;
And I contemn the other, though fhe should:
Nor ask I vengeance on the perjur'd jilt;
'Tis punishment enough to have her guilt.
I beg but balfam for my bleeding breast,
Cure for my wounds, and from my labours rest.
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